


Morning Prayer

by ballpointscythe



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Body Worship, M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 11:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15118463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpointscythe/pseuds/ballpointscythe
Summary: Connor wakes up before Hank and wants to prove to his grumpy boyfriend that he's beautiful and handsome and worth every bit of affection Connor has to give him.





	Morning Prayer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sinclair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinclair/gifts).



> Hey it's me, A. Bear and this is for my beb as a morning after companion to his series The Honeymooners!!!

Connor didn’t sleep.

He didn’t exactly _not_ sleep either, but he was always aware of Hank’s breathing, changing as he slipped in and out of REM sleep, his soft snoring and his heavy snoring. Even once when he rolled over and as clear as if he were wide awake said “Fuck you” before snoring away.

And now, at 7:32, as the morning light just started to breech the blinds and the half-drawn curtains, Hank was still sleeping, his breath light and even. Not surprising.

But Hank had kicked off half the covers, tangling the rest around himself as if he had purposefully posed them for modesty, even as the rest of him was spread, sprawled, like a starfish. Connor could just lie still in his power-saving rest mode and wait for Hank to wake, but…why do that when he could look at the highlights and shadows crossing over Hank’s body as the sun slowly rose.

And why do just that when he could reach out and _touch_ Hank.

He had touched Hank plenty the night before, touched all of him that he could reach, all that Hank would let him get his hands or his mouth or both on, but…now he could take his time. He didn’t have a task to complete except satisfying his own curiosity.

Connor sat up, leaned down to Hank’s un-covered foot. Gently, he wrapped his fingers around Hank’s thick ankle; his bones stood out in stark contrast to Connor’s slim fingers, which just made the full curve of his calf all the more pleasing. Connor ran his palm up Hank’s leg slowly, taking in all the subtleties of the texture of his skin, of the few scars almost faded to invisibility from age, relishing the gentle rasp of the thick hair against the webbing between his fingers. There were old stretch marks around Hank’s knee; from a growth spurt during adolescence perhaps?

Had Hank ever been a gangly and awkward teen like Connor never got a chance to be? Or was he always the sturdy and imposing man before him today?

Connor brushed his thumb over Hank’s stretch marks, across his kneecap, and up his thigh. It was…plush. Soft but deceptively strong, as Hank proved the night before, clamping them down around his head and neck and keeping him supported despite everything Connor did to make that impossible.

Connor squeezed the fat on Hank’s inner thigh; it was silken. He could never change his weight or body fat ratio; he’d never be thinner, or fatter, or more muscular. But Hank could be all of those things. And Connor would enjoy him and be enraptured by each change, if that’s what Hank chose. But the soft give of the fat cushioning Hank’s thighs was…exquisite. It made Connor think of warm things, the feeling of being completely surrounded by Hank’s thick frame in a firm hug, or drowning in one of Hank’s shirts, borrowed when Hank got upset at seeing him covered in Therium (not his own, of course, and not the Skate Fast Eat Ass tee balled up in a corner of the room somewhere), and how it made him feel…cared for. Like he wasn’t just a machine or a piece of equipment on loan, but a person.

That fat was a testament to Hank’s life, even if Hank couldn’t see the beauty in it himself. What Hank might see as flaws, Connor saw as signs of humanity.

Connor? He didn’t scar; he didn’t have flaws except what was designed for him to fit in. There was something compelling…

Markus once explained to Connor how he viewed Carl’s artwork. How the strokes of the paintbrush created something greater than themselves: the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. Connor hadn’t understood at the time, his only reference to that phrase having to do with machinery, but now he did. Now, watching the shadows play across the soft curves and swells and peaks and dips of Hank’s body as he breathed, he knew what art was.

More stretch marks around Hank’s hip and belly. Curious, Connor leaned down and touched his lips to one patch. They were smooth but textured at the edges where they met his unmarked skin. Strange but enjoyable. They were a part of Hank, so obviously Connor wanted to touch every single one and get to know it. He could catalogue Hank’s marks and scars and label them, recall in fractions in fractions of seconds, but this wasn’t the time for that. This wasn’t a crime scene, it was _Hank_.

He wanted to get to know them organically. Even if he was not, by definition, organic.

He traced the soft fold of Hank’s belly where it sagged downwards. The weight felt good in his hand.

“Con…wh’t’f’ck are you doin?”

Connor didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned in and pressed his face to Hank’s stomach, draping his arm across Hank’s hips. Hank tensed up, heart rate elevating, but he soon settled when Connor turned his head to look up at him. “I told you last night I find you very attractive, Hank. I couldn’t help but notice how you’re even more handsome in the morning light.”

Hank’s cheeks pinkened beneath his thick beard and he looked away, the same way he _always_ did when he was embarrassed or nervous. But he didn’t push Connor away. In fact, he lifted up one of his big, rough hands and let it fall with a soft _pap_ against Connor’s cheek. Connor wouldn’t embarrass him further by commenting on the tentative way Hank’s thumb brushed over the curve of his cheekbone or how the very corners of his mouth turned up.

Connor closed his eyes and settled, never putting too much weight on Hank that he would feel caged in, awkward and twitchy as he was, but enough that he hoped Hank would feel the same way Connor did whenever he pulled him in with an arm around his shoulders, or dragged him away from danger, or clapped him on the back as he laughed at something Connor said, or when Hank called Sumo to jump up on the couch to lay across their laps like a bridge connecting them during movie nights.

Connor didn’t know how to replicate those feelings for Hank, but he would learn.

“This how I’m gonna have to wake up every morning with you?” Hank grumbled.

“If you would allow me to, yes,” Connor said. He slid a hand up from Hank’s hip to his ribs, then around to his chest. He didn’t touch the light crescent scars beneath Hank’s pecs, but traced just below them. Traced the outline of his tattoo, slowly committing the shape, the line work, the shading, the coloring, what had faded and what had been touched up over the years to memory.

Hank’s breathing had slowed, but he was alert. Watching every move Connor made, like he was…afraid? Nervous?

However much Connor could analyze Hank, he could never get inside his head. Never understand what he was thinking. But Hank’s thumb was brushing his cheek, his pupils were dilated, and he was shifting, so he had to be doing something right.

“You still don’t believe me, do you, Hank?”

Hank huffed out a soft breath. “Like that’s so weird. You, a perfect twink of an android and me, a washed up old man.”

Connor sighed. “I wish you weren’t so critical of yourself, Hank.” Before he sat up, Connor trailed his lips over more of Hank’s stretch marks, up to his appendicitis scar, down the thick trail of hair that trailed down his belly; he straddled Hank’s hips effortlessly, still touching everything he could reach with light fingertips or with firm palms. “I wish you could see yourself how I see you.”

“Yeah? And how’s that?” Hank’s broad hands rested on Connor’s hips in a way that wasn’t casual but was pretending to be.

“Handsome. Sexy. I see survival in you, Hank.”

Connor couldn’t not think of the night he broke into Hank’s house when he found him lying passed out on the kitchen floor. But even that, he had survived. Connor touched Hank’s face to prove to himself that he was still here, still alive, and healing. Slowly, slowly, as all psychological damage did, but healing nonetheless.

“You’re one to fuckin’ talk about survival, Con.”

“That’s not survival, Hank. That’s…” Connor paused. What had Amanda said? That each time he was replaced, something was _lost_? He had only been replaced once, before he ever met Hank, so maybe he was still not yet deviant enough to sense the loss. “That’s something else.”

He didn’t know what. So to hide it, Connor leaned down, cupping Hank’s cheeks in both his hands, running his fingers across the thick bristles of his beard that tickled and scratched the smooth skin of his own face, and kissed him.

Last night had been full of desperation, longing, grabbing for purchase, crashing together like waves on a stormy shore, but this was the gentle lapping of a pond on an uninhabited beach.

While they had found rhythm before, learning, now they were _partners_ , setting and melding until the slide of their lips became second nature, slow, like they had all the time in the world.


End file.
